


got my heart stitched up

by Dubiousculturalartifact (222Ravens)



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, Nurses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-01-20 03:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12424245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/222Ravens/pseuds/Dubiousculturalartifact
Summary: "Please let me handle the cute one, this time?"or, the one where Peggy Carter keeps winding up in Angie Martinelli's ER





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An old fic I just dug up, and decided to publish. It's halfway written already, so I'll polish up the few chapters I have and send them out, as soon as possible!
> 
> Disclaimer: everything I know about nursing, I learned from tv or google

_Being a nurse is a great career choice, Angie! We’re so proud of you!_

 

The words of half her relatives and high school guidance counsellor echo mockingly in her ears, as she jumps back to avoid vomit splattering onto her mint-green scrubs.

 

It’s moments like this she wishes to the Catholic God of Italian grandmother that she’d had the sense to go for the starving Broadway actress option. How bad could waitressing and auditions be, honestly?

 

Something halfway like an apology mumbles out from the mouth of the dumb-ass who she was attempting to check for a concussion. He doesn’t appear to have one, and while Angie is technically relieved, it feels like too strong an emotion to muster up at 2 am.

 

“Alright, we're gonna have to get you into a cast for your broken wrist, there, but otherwise you’re alright. Not at any potentially fatal levels of alcohol poisoning, no concussion, just a few bruises. Though, bit of advice? Try to leave the fence climbing for not directly after several jaegerbombs. In fact, don’t drink ‘em at all. Caffeine messes with how drunk you feel, it’s not a good combination.” She says, something acerbic creeping into her tone, before she moves on to the next idiot that a Friday night of drinking has brought stumbling through the doors of the ER.

 

“I love you sooooo muh, thank you nurse lady...” He wipes his mouth, and that's all the attention he’s gonna garner from her, thank you. A middle-age man tries to grab Angie's leg as she moves along. Yelling something about walruses stealing his apples, because what’s crazy without a hefty dose of surrealism? Back to work, moving another patient into the exam room.

 

She glances up, though, and sees a new patient slip in through the doors. There wasn’t much a chance to do more than glance, her hands being a bit full with the IV drip she's setting up on the next patient, but _damn_.

 

Angie sees all kind coming in here, true, but this lady looks like something else, entirely. Nobody whose shoulder is at that kind of angle and has blood on her should be looking that manner of poised, for one. That ain't even getting to the hair and lips. The slinky evening gown showing off mile-and-a-half legs. If you can look past the blood, and Angie has plenty of practice at that… Well. They’re awful nice, let’s just say.

 

Lots of stories come through here, and not all good. Lot of bad, truth told. But something about the way she looks says this is one Angie wouldn't mind hearing.

 

Except then Claire is yelling at her to _move_ , with a gurney and EMTs coming barreling through the doors, _cardiac arrest, female in her sixties, adrenaline and amiodarone, NOW_. Angie’s training kicks in, and she’s moving without even being half-conscious of it.

 

The truth was, she wasn’t much to talk about crazy. Any grumbling aside, Angie thrived on this kind of thing. There was a weird rush to it, the tricky balance of the line between life and death, and keeping people on one side of that blurry bitch of a line. The always unexpected parts, the challenge of balancing eight different people’s needs at a time, figuring out who needed help most.

 

This lady was gonna go home to her grandkids after a bit of surgery, if all things went according. That was worth the puke, the blood, the stress and the pay and weird hours.

 

It would be a good while until Angie got to the one who’d caught her eye earlier, with the way triage was handling. Truth was, she almost didn't make it to her at all, with Claire nearly getting to her first.

 

"Please let me handle the cute one, this time?” Angie had whispered in passing, as they finished up stabilizing another patient.

 

Her coworker had scrunched a dark brow, looking around the room for likely candidates. Sure, ‘cute’ without any further details had been a bit vague. But come on, there wasn't anyone else in the room who'd outshine a lady like that.

 

Sure enough, Claire notices, and the woman shifts in her seat, almost as if she's aware of the attention, straightening up, a little.

 

God, Angie hopes not _too_ straight.

 

Claire shrugs, smiling a bit as she works to stem the bleeding on this next guy's forehead, because never a dull moment in this place. "Sure. I'm clocking out soon, I've got to go… Help a friend with something."

 

Because this is apparently just her day, Angie slips just as she's reaching her, on the vomit from earlier, because tonight’s janitorial shift is apparently the _worst_. So much for moves.

 

Despite a limply hanging arm and blood dripping down one leg, the woman is half-standing, reaching out her good arm to steady Angie. “Are you alright?”

 

Angie rights herself quickly, her arm tingling as she guides the other woman back into a sitting position.

 

When the woman had opened her mouth, it was crisp, British-something and gorgeous. Unfair.Angie doesn't want to think about how she looks right now. Scrubs and ponytail, no makeup to speak of, dark circles, no doubt. That's her general luck.

 

“Am _I_ alright? You really shouldn’t be standing at _all_ in your condition.”

 

 _Focus, Martinelli._ She chides herself, because she's a consummate professional, and she will treat this patient just the same as the ugly frat-bro and the creepy walrus man, from earlier.

 

With dignity, respect, and conscientious care.

 

"Sorry to be a bother, I know you must be incredibly busy." Are the next words out of that mouth, and Angie stops to cross her arms.

 

"Lady, you've got what looks like a _stab wound_ in your leg, and you're apologizing to me? You not have insurance or something?”

 

Angie doesn’t think that’s likely, not with the diamond on her neck, but hell, you never know, right?

 

The woman has the temerity to smile at her, kind of smile that oughta be illegal.  “My insurance is perfectly adequate. But it is definitely a stab wound, I’m afraid. I slipped. With a knife in my hand.” The accent is gorgeous, British and as polished as her jewelry, as her carefully careless smile.

 

 _“_ Went down on my shoulder wrong, I think, besides. Dislocated, I’m suspecting.”

 

Talks like a dictionary, but something shifty about her, too. Not bad, exactly. Just cagey.

 

"Uh _huh._ " Angie tracks the bruise blooming on the woman’s face, too, the kind that usually happens from a fist. This ain't the first 'accident' story she's heard. Even from a lady like that. Some really were legit. Some involved a husband or some other bastard _helping_ the accident along.

 

So, almost despite herself, she softens. “You sure about that. honey?"

 

There's a very bored police officer in one corner of the room, baby-sitting one patient, and Angie flicks her eyes in that direction.

 

The woman tenses, just a little. “Entirely.”

 

Angie ain't the sort to judge, but she does like to look out for people.

 

"Listen, just so’s you know. I aint making any kind of assumption, but I run into all kinds of situations. The cop over there? He’s pretty alright, as they go. He could probably take a statement from you, if it was that kinda thing.” She shrugs. “Unless that’d make more trouble for you. I’d get that, too.”

 

The woman looks… Surprised. Not by the accusation, Angie thinks. Maybe just that she bothered asking at all. And doesn’t that say something about human nature.

 

“I have no one but my own carelessness to blame. But thank you. It was very kind of you to make certain.”

 

Hell, even if it was something illegal involved, and not a domestic thing? Her family's got enough connections to shifty manners of business. She wouldn't go looking twice.

 

But fishy as it is, Angie kinda wants to believe her. It ain’t just the legs. She considers herself an awful good judge of character, and this lady seems alright.“Sure, thing…”

 

“Peggy. Thank you.” Is the reply, with almost a genuine smile, this time.

 

Might be an _almost_ , but it’s still enough to half take Angie’s breath. See? Not just the legs.

 

“Yeah? Angie.” That hangs in the air for a moment, and Angie swears she didn’t mean to pause, there’s just something about this _Peggy_. “Angie Martinelli.”

 

Someone coughs, a machine beeps, and its back to strictly business, nothing funny.“Now, let’s see about getting the bleeding stopped on that, stitches for sure, you might need an IV, hard to say how much you’ve lost, and you’ll be wanting an X-ray on that shoulder before we do a whole lot else, I’m thinking, if you can’t move it much. Can you? I’m gonna touch you, real gentle.”

 

Sure, she might be babbling a little, but that’s hardly much of thing, now, is it? Angie ghosts her gloved fingers along the shoulder, touching bare skin and silk, before moving down to check the leg wound. Stitches needed, for sure.“So you make a habit of cooking while dressed this nice?”

 

“Hmm?” Peggy says, wincing as Angie reaches for some supplies. “Oh, cooking. Yes. Not generally. I was… Cutting a slice of lemon.”

 

“Cocktail party?” Angie says, her fingers staying just half a second on the edge of what was strictly necessary for an full examination.

 

“Mmm. And then, as I said. I fell, from the shock, and you know. That’s how the shoulder happened.” Peggy’s eyes are a bit distant, and she’s surprising calm for a woman with a leg this bloody. Damn, she’d _walked_ into the ER on this?

 

“I think it’s dislocated, but we’ll handle that in a minute. Tetanus shot, recently?” Angie asked, keeping her mind on the task as she reaches for the local anesthetic.

 

The rest of the treatment goes pretty smoothly, but at one point Angie cracks a joke and Peggy smiles. And if she’d thought it was a genuine smile the last time, this one? _Whooo._

 

It’s one of those moments when she wishes her job was something different, something where the people she sees are ones she might see on the regular. Get a chance to get to know them a little. Or at least under better circumstances.

 

But that ain’t the way it goes. Anyway, by no more than two hours later, that ‘Peggy’ is completely out of her mind for the moment, because as her shift draws to a close, she’s stuck digging the fifth staple out of a man’s scalp.

 

Point for creativity, she supposes, though. Takes a sick kind of ingenuity to wield a stapler like that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks y'all, for your comments!
> 
> (Also, yes, the number of chapter on this DID go up. Oops?)

4 am, and the all-night diner around the corner from the hospital is pretty much looking like Heaven as she drags herself in through the door, feeling like she’s been stomped all over. In fact, as it just so happened, she almost literally had been. Okay. Not stomped, exactly. But definitely _kicked_. twice. Hard. There’s not a lot that’s going to improve her night, but a slice of pie will at least temper her mood, a bit.

 

Except, ain’t _that_ a thing. Because who is sitting at one of the tables but her mystery patient from the other week, the cute brunette? And looking good, too, when not all bloody and injured. She’s not dressed up quite as much, this time, exactly, sure, but she still looks good. It’s more subtle, but still the kind that screams _expensive_ to someone with an uncle who’s a tailor. Blue, and tasteful as all heck, a hint of vintage stylings to it.

 

“How’s the shoulder?” Angie says, walking up, almost against her own better judgement.

 

“Pardon?” Peggy pauses for a moment, before blinking, her face relaxing into a smile. Oh _yeah_. That’s why she wanted to say hi.“Oh! Angie, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yeah. That’s me.” Angie tries not to be that pleased about her remembering. Some people are good with names, is all.

 

“Much better, thank you.”

 

“Hey, it’s my job, right?” Job. Professional capacities.

 

Peggy gives her an appraising glance. “Just coming off shift?”

 

Angie winces, and tries not to think too hard about the way she’s looking. “Is it that obvious?”

 

“Not a lot of other reasons to be awake at this time of the morning.” She has a single cup of black coffee in front of her.

 

“Says you. Long night?”

 

“You could say that.”

 

Angie stands there, hovering for a second. Peggy looks at her, polite expectation.

 

“Are you sitting?”

 

“If you’re offering.” Angie says, but drops down into the booth before she gets an answer. “I’m going for pie. You want any?”

 

Peggy demurs, and it’s funny, cause she looks different, in this light. A little softer, maybe. Angie shrugs, running a finger over a scratch in the formica counter-top.

 

“This place ain’t exactly teeming with Yelp reviews singing its praises, but the pie is damn good, okay? Don’t judge.”

 

There’s an arched brow.“I’m not judging. I’m here, aren’t I?”

 

“Yeah. Drinking black coffee. Not eating pie. Coffee is good with pie. Course, schnapps is better, but I’m working too early tomorrow for that to be any fun.”

 

The waitress comes. Angie orders two slices, waves away Peggy’s protests. “You need to eat.”

 

“Thank you.” Peggy says, as if she’s not entirely certain what just happened, but she’s willing to entertain the moment. Angie likes that about her.

 

“So. Rough night?” Angie tries, part because she likes talking, and maybe cause she’d like to know, too. Angie isn’t even sure why. Some people just feel like people you want to know.

 

“How did you guess?”

 

Angie shrugs. “Like you said. Not a lot of other reasons to be up at this kind of hour.”

 

She's very precise in her movements, Peggy is. The way she drinks, even, neat sips. "Something like that. And my coworkers..." Her face twists.

 

"Douchebags?"

 

A snort. It’s delicate, but it’s still a snort. ”Perhaps not the word I'd use, but not entirely inaccurate, either."

 

"They have anything to do with your accident the other day?"

 

"No! That was my own carelessness, I'm afraid." Something of the sharpness in her comes back, with that.

 

Angie can sense that sharpness is something that is never too far away, with this woman. It’s not a bad thing, though. She knows the mean kind of sharpness, and this isn’t it.

 

She's like a spring that's wound too tight, and Angie wouldn't mind relieving some of that tension. Not even just in the dirty-minded connotation of that kind of phrase, much as that would be nice in its own way.Just because.

 

"Yeah, well, ain't the dumbest thing I've seen inmy line of work, believe you me. Hell, even outside of it. Man, this one Christmas dinner, my cousin Tommy, he..."

 

Angie isn't sure why she launches into the story, one involving a frozen turkey, a bet, and a very ill-advised venture on a rooftop, but, well. The pie arrives halfway through, and Peggy lets her keep at it, after that.

 

She's even less sure why Peggy is listening, but as Angie keeps rambling about this and that, Peggy... Loosens, a little bit. Their knees bump once or twice, under the table, and it's nice. Real nice.

 

She almost thinks to ask for Peggy’s number, when the pie runs out, and they’ve been talking for well over an hour, as easy as that. But she doesn’t.

 

For all she thrives on adrenaline, she’s never been as brave as she wants to be.

 

….

 

 

It’s two weeks after that, and she’s busy dealing with six things at once at work, and she sees a flash of familiar brown hair out of the corner of her eye.

 

Angie is too busy to look up, though, because sorry, twenty patients just came in with _alien chemical burns_ from the latest superhero bullshit. Honestly, it never used to be this bad, and this one is awful, she loses one of the patients. Then it’s rushing to the burn unit to fill in until the extra specialists can get there, and her shift is nearly over, but she stays overtime.

 

It’s one of the worst shifts she’s had in a long time, and she’s too exhausted to wonder much about a lady who, honestly, she’s only met twice.

 

It’s not like she could ask. Because she never asked for her number. Because she’s an idiot.

 

—


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments and kudos!
> 
> The next chapter will be up VERY soon, I've just been struggling over the ending, so I wound up rewriting a bunch of the middle bit, to wrestle myself through. Thanks for your patience, in the meantime.

Even acknowledging that, she doesn’t ask the next time, either, a couple of weeks later, when their paths cross again. When she's got another patient, with a suspected concussion, after a 'yoga accident'. It turns out not to be a concussion. It also turns out to be Peggy.

 

"It's almost a pity." Peggy says, quietly, and Angie supposes that's a funny sort of outfit for yoga, but hey. It looks good on her.

 

"It's a pity you don't have a concussion?" Angie says, because who  _is_ this lady? "You want me to double-check, because you're sure talking like you've got one."

 

Peggy laughs. "No, I only meant... Usually someone has to monitor you after a concussion, don't they? Or, at least, so I've been told."

 

And _huh_. The bustle of the ER wing is loud around her, she knows that on some kind of intellectual level. Except she looks at Peggy, and Peggy looks right back, and there's this moment when everything feels quiet.

 

It's just quiet enough for her to get the words out right, to smile, to say, "If you want to go for pie with me again, you just gotta ask."

 

There's a pause, just long enough that Angie almost thinks she mis-judged, before Peggy smiles back. It's a cautious smile, but it's there. "When are you off work?"

 

"Not for another hour and a quarter." Angie says, and it's too bad, isn't it? That's life. Because half an hour, maybe, and she could expect something, but a whole hour and change, and then...

 

"I can wait. I brought a book, and since I don't have a concussion, I can always read it in one of the lobby areas."

 

Angie smiles, brighter than she probably should, because this lady is accident-prone in a way that feels suspicious, because she's clearly crazy as all get out... But there ain't many people who have ever found her worth waiting around for. Ain't a lot of people with the kind of patience for that, who also have the patience for her.

 

\---

 

 

This time is quieter, but it’s nice. Almost too nice, and Angie is a little nervous about that. She usually talks extra loud, is probably _too much_ to compensate, half the time. She doesn’t really know what to do with silences, most of the time.

 

Somehow it’s not that way with Peggy, though. The silence just settles, it doesn’t stretch. They talk a little bit, here and there. But not very much. Like she said. It’s nice, in a way she doesn’t know what to do with, except be in it. Be in that moment, with this woman, and let that be.

 

 

“I’m sorry, I'm... A bit distracted, today.” Peggy says, but it’s an apology, not a brush-off. A sign that there might be something going on, that she ain't ready to talk about, but that she's willing to let Angie hang around, just the same.

 

Angie shrugs, and takes a bite of pie, and lets Peggy talk around the details of her life, and tries to fill in the gaps, right. Lets herself talk about her own life, and lets Peggy listen in a way that says she honestly wants to hear about it.

 

Then. Then there’s a moment, a silence that settles just the right way, and Angie thinks she's gonna ask... _Something_. About Peggy, or about whatever this might be. Except  Angie opens her mouth, and somehow “I’ll be right back, gotta hit the bathroom,” comes out instead.

 

Some drunk guy tries to make a grab at her, as she passes by his booth, and honestly, she ain’t got the time to deal with that, so she just brushes it off. That’s life, sometimes.

 

She goes to the little single-stall, and stares at the ugly art and breathes in the shitty air-freshner for half a minute, trying to get her courage up. “Get your shit together, Martinelli.”

 

The guy is running out the door when she gets back, looking spooked, and Peggy is settling back into her seat, looking self-satisfied. It’s another goddamn mystery, and it’s getting close to 1 am, and she looks _beautiful_. Angie wants to ask. She want to ask a whole goddamn lot, more than she has any right to.

 

Except Peggy smiles at her, like nothing at all just happened. Pulls out a fancy credit card, to pay for the cake, and Angie freezes up. Thinks about the distance between their two lives, the one that has gotta exist, whatever Peggy’s life really is.

 

Thanks her politely, instead, and they go their separate ways.

 

Next time around.

 

——

 

Angie walks past that same diner, three days later, and sees Peggy sitting there, same way. Same cup of coffee.

 

So Angie walks right in. Taps on the formica tabletop to get her attention, and waits for the answering glance, the smile. It’s a moment, and then she’s sliding into the booth, and maybe it’s a bit weird, but she knows Peggy is the type where a person doesn’t have to worry about them not telling you to piss off.

 

"Can't sleep?" She asks, and Peggy shakes her head, and Angie nods, cause she knows the feeling.

 

 

This time Angie doesn’t even eat anything, cause she’s got way too many leftovers from her Ma visiting to even _think_ about eating anything else.

 

Peggy has cake. Vanilla, and dark coffee. Peggy never talks about her job. Hardly much about her life. She’s still says a lot without that. Is still the most damn interesting person Angie has ever met.

 

“I… It’s very nice. Talking to you.” Peggy says, abruptly. “I don’t have a lot of people in my life, who… Well.”

 

“Likewise, English.” Angie says, and she means it. She means it, God help her, and she doesn't know what to do about it. Not when Peggy’s cake is done, and they’re at that awkward part of any evening, when it’s clear that goodbyes are about to start happening, but neither party wants to blink first.

 

Except, no, screw it. She watched a guy barely older than herself nearly die tonight, on her shift, over some minor little tiny accident. The kind that could happen to anyone, any day.So Angie reaches for her purse, because she’s not a junior high kid with an impossible crush, she’s an adult woman, and _carpe goddamn diem_.

 

“You don’t have to…” Peggy starts, and Angie shushes her.

 

“I ain’t paying for you, English. Maybe next time.” She says, pulling out a piece of paper, a pen, & scrawls across it, some numbers and a name. Hers.

 

She slides it across the table. Peggy picks it up, with neat movements of her fingers, nails shiny red. “What’s this?”

 

“A phone number. What’s it look like?” Angie smiles, a little crooked, but warm enough she hopes the implications are clear.

 

“Yours?” Peggy asks, looking pole-axed.

 

Or not that clear. Jeez, this lady. It’s almost cute how clueless she is.“No, the ambassador of Italy. Yes, _mine.”_

 

_“For?”_

 

 _“_ Whatever you like.” She says, and walks out.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the good news is, this next chapter is up really soon, as promised!
> 
> The bad news is, well...

Peggy doesn’t call.

 

Angie doesn’t go back to the diner. The pie wasn’t that great, honestly, and another all-night coffee shop opened up, and…. There’s a whole lot of ‘ands’,mostly there to cover up for all the ‘ifs’ she keeps thinking about.

 

Truth told, Angie knows that whatever was up with Peggy? Well. The phrase ‘out of one’s league’ come to mind. She’s the first one in her family to even graduate… Much of anything, really. Brooklyn girl born and raised, Angie grew up knowing just enough about some of the rest of her family’s ‘business’ dealings to know _not to ask_.

 

Peggy, all else aside, is the kind of polish that suggests family silver, upper-something private school. Or hey, maybe it was all a facade, and her upbringing is as normal as Angie. But even if that’s so, people who try and leave behind where they grew up? Rarely got time for the kind of people who stayed.

 

Her mom had needed help, was the thing. And nursing paid, better than being some actress or whatever. It wasn’t a bad life, but it was what it was, and she knew that.

 

Her job is a lot of pain, a lot of misery. A lot of people yelling at her for stuff that ain’t even a bit her fault. So yeah, maybe she thinks about Peggy a little bit longer than she should, because a woman like that wasn’t likely to come through her doors again.

 

Not without a fight, anyhow.

 

——

Except then it’s weeks later, and the only warning Angie gets is ‘ _female patient, gunshot wound to the chest, blood loss and severe trauma,_ ’ and a bunch of other words that fade into background noise.

 

Cause it _ain’t_ a stranger, or not enough of one.

 

You’d think she’s used to it, now, but there’s _so much blood_ , bright under hospital fluorescents.

 

She moves on auto-pilot, which is good, because the rest of her brain has shut down.

 

She doesn’t let herself think, just focuses on keeping Peggy alive.

 

Because she has to. Because it’s her job, and because she _has to_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

 

….

 

“Is this gonna be a regular thing?” Angie says, and it isn’t as much of a joke as she wanted it to be.

 

She’s off work already, but she couldn’t resist checking on Peggy while she was still in her scrubs, and sure enough, the woman (nah, _lady_. Something about her just screamed _lady_ , gunshots or no, however old-fashioned that sounded) was awake.

 

It was maybe a good thing she was still in scrubs, because there was someone outside the door, someone in some kinda fancy suit. She couldn’t peg whether it was a family member, security, a cop, or who the hell knew, but they gave her a look-over, before she entered the room, and Angie got the impression they might not have just let _anyone_ in. It was just another in a long line of questions, and a short one of answers.

 

Peggy looks up, from the hospital room bed. She looks good. Unfairly damn good, for a gunshot victim, all pale under the lights and in a flimsy gown. But still pretty damn close to radiant.

 

“It’s not my intention, no.”

 

“Not my intention?” Angie asks, and there’s another question underneath it.

 

“I… Meant getting injured. Not… talking to you.”

 

“Whatever. Look. I know you’ve made it pretty clear it ain’t any of my business, but do I have to be worried about you? Cause let me tell you, this ain’t exactly a statistically probable couple of events to be happening in the space of barely a few months.”

 

“I…” Peggy starts, and it sounds sincere, it really does, but she just doesn’t know anymore. She’s tired, and this woman is an enigma wrapped in a riddle, and she was never any damn good at mysteries.

 

So Angie talks over her, because she is good at the one. “Look. Peggy. I saw the bullet they dug out of you. Hell, I helped… I helped dig the bullet out of you. I reckon that even if nothing else counts, given how I technically just saved your life and all… You can trust me for that. So I’m gonna ask again. Should I be worried about you? Cause it’s looking an awful lot like I oughta be.”

 

Peggy struggles to try and sit up, and sighs back against the cot. “I truly appreciate your concern, but really, I want to impress upon you that it isn’t definitely nothing at all like that. Barring a few… Incidents, I’m not in any danger in the way you are probably thinking. And certainly not…. in the domestic sphere, so to speak. I’m not even dating anyone, actually.”

 

Angie tries not to feel hopeful at the last part, even with all the rest. She ain’t half sure if she actually succeeds.

 

“Are you, what, a criminal? Some kind of classy cat-burglar type, or something? You make off with the diamonds you were wearing that first time?”

 

That draws a laugh, and she really ought to feel guilty about that, gunshot wounds and stitches and laughter being the worst damn combination. So Angie puts a hand on Peggy’s shoulder, pushing her back into bed, and the heartbeat monitor beeps a little more frantically. Huh.

 

Peggy doesn’t say a word for a beat, just brings a hand over to the hand on her shoulder, touches it briefly, almost reassuring. “I’m definitely not a master criminal. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m really quite…”

 

“However good a liar you might or might not be, if the next word out of your mouth is ‘ordinary’, I’m calling bull. You’re a lot of things, Peggy, but ordinary don’t make the list.”

 

Her hand is still on Peggy’s shoulder. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

 

“Yes. Well. I suppose you were on duty when I came in?”

 

“Yeah, I _was_.”

 

“That was quite a number of hours ago, they tell me. Don’t tell me you’re still working.”

 

Angie winces. “Alright, you caught me. I came in on my off time. But really. Can you blame a girl?”

 

Something in Peggy’s eyes soften. “Don’t you get a million patients? You can’t care about all of them.”

 

“That’s a little harsh.”

 

Peggy frowns. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve told you almost nothing about myself, and yet you clearly… I mean. It’s must be difficult. Knowing you can’t save everyone that you try to help.”

 

The way she says it, it doesn’t feel like that’s a statement uttered in the abstract. But Angie can’t think about that, not really. “Not everyone ate pie with me. But yeah, it wouldn’t kill you to open up a little.”

 

“I can’t.” She says, her voice clipped.

 

Angie has already pulled up short, snatching her hand away. “Hey, no worries. I get it. Or, well, no, I don’t get you at all, but I can take a hint, trust me.”

 

“I’m sorry. I just…It isn’t that I dislike you, or anything. Far from it. But my life is a complicated one.”

 

“Guess so. Don’t even have time for a phone call.” She doesn’t know why she’s being so bitter. It’s probably bad form to start an argument with a gunshot victim.

 

Peggy blinks. “Oh! Is that why you’re angry at me?”

 

Angie’s mind “It’s about me hoping next time you don’t die on the way to the hospital, but sure. Maybe a little bit. But hey. You don’t owe me nothing.”

 

It sucks, but she’s had a couple of weeks to deal with that. That should have been enough, and maybe it would’ve been, if they’d run into each other in the grocery store. But they didn’t. Peggy wound up here, in Angie’s world again. Peggy had almost died, and if they’d made a mistake in the surgery, or it had been a bit later, that the ambulance had made it in? Then it wouldn’t have been just that.

 

At the same time, Peggy is right. Angie can’t save everyone she tries to help, and if she doesn’t have the information, she can’t help. She can’t do anything, because at the end of the day, no matter how good Peggy’s smile is, or how much Peggy had instantly made her feel like she’s _enough,_ just by letting her talk _…_

 

She clearly isn’t.

 

“Angie, listen, I…” Peggy tries, and Angie knows that she’ll fall for the next words to come out of her mouth.

 

So Angie does the smart thing, and cuts her off. Because she’s right. They don’t owe each other anything, not really. And she’s gotta learn how to be okay with that.

 

“Forget about it, okay? Wasn’t meant to be. I’ll.. let you rest, and heal up. Hope I don’t see you around, English.” She doesn’t let herself hear anything else Peggy tries to say. Just lets the door shut behind her.

 

So that’s that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for this one, too.
> 
> I PROMISE THE NEXT CHAPTER IS MORE OPTIMISTIC, I SWEAR.
> 
> also the chapter count went up again. my bad.


	6. Chapter 6

This fic is going on hiatus.

 

Sorry to everyone who left lovely and supportive comments, I appreciate you a lot.

 

But I'm going through some stuff right now, and writing is taking a lot out of me at the moment.  
  
  
Don't post comments  _demanding_ that I update, that is only liable to make me slower to do so.

 

When I can, and when I want to, I will.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves awkwardly*
> 
> Hi everyone!
> 
> Sorry for the huge delay on this, I hit a major months-long writer's block that I've only just cracked this afternoon. 
> 
> Will do my best to finish this up faster than the rest of them took, but I did also just up the chapter count. Again. Oops?
> 
> Expect two more to wrap things, and then I'm calling it a day on this fic. I appreciate all of your comments, kudoses, and most of all, your patience!

It’s her goddamn day off, and her phone is _off_ , and it is too goddamn early in the morning, for her to have to get up, to answer the door. Truth is, Angie is pretty sure it’s too early to even qualify _as_ morning, to anyone who doesn’t have the kind of sleep schedule that an ER nurse stumbles through life on. But it doesn’t seem like that knocking is gonna stop any time soon.

 

So she answers, and Peggy is standing there, looking out of breath, and a little lost. She’s carrying a large purse, and has a big dark coat over top, the kind that doesn’t really suit her usual style.

 

“Hello.” Is all Angie gets, to start off.

 

The smart part of her says to shut the damn door. That there’s this whole ‘fool me once’ thing going on here. Trouble is, she’s always been a goddamn fool. The smart part of her never really had much of a shot against the rest of her instincts, so the door stays cracked open. So Angie stays staring dumbly at the woman in front of her, sopping wet with rain but still looking like someone she could stare at for a long time, if circumstances ever allowed.

 

“Angie, I'm sorry, but I need to.... I… I would have called, but I lost your phone number.” Peggy starts, fumblingly.

 

“You _lost_ it?” Angie says, because it's the only part of this that she can make any sense out of, really. 

 

“My purse fell off a dock.”

 

“Oh.” Angie says, and she really shouldn’t be heartened by that, given the circumstance. She shouldn’t be feeling like an idiot, for things, when it _definitely_ ain’t her fault. “Well why didn’t you just say that?”

 

“I tried, but… ‘ _Oh?’_ ” Peggy repeats.

 

“Yeah, _oh_. Why do you think I was pissed? Okay, there was the whole part where you got shot, and I had to practically hold your spleen inside of you, but still. Girl gives you her number, and you don’t call? Yeah, I guess I figured the problem was me.”

 

Peggy softens impossibly. “Far from it, and I’m… I’m sorry I ever gave that impression, but that’s really not…”

 

“Hold on.” Angie says, and suddenly the fact that it’s _3 am_ , and she’s in pyjamas, hits her. “You lost my phone number, yeah.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But I _gave that to you._ Ain’t never told you my address.” The fact that they’re on the third floor of the building, and there’s a door code involved, is suddenly percolating through to her brain.

 

“I ran a background check on the fly, and pick the downstairs lock. I would have run one earlier, to get your number back, but in all honesty I got busy, then I wasn’t sure if it would have been appropriate, and after our last meeting…”

 

Angie goggles. “You weren’t sure if it woulda been... _who the hell even are you_?”

 

She looks at Angie, and Angie looks back. There’s a breath, and then, “Right, that is what I was getting to. The truth is, and the very good reason for me being reticent before is. Well. I’m a spy. And there are people trying to kill me, and do far worse things besides. I’m currently on the run, and you are one of the only people in the world whom I happen to trust, that they won’t think to look for. I… I wouldn’t be here, if I knew anyone else to ask.”

 

Angie lets the words hang between them in the doorway, for a good minute. Cause honestly, Peggy showing up at her door in the rain, in the middle of the night, with a grand declaration to make? Part of her had been hoping this was some kinda romcom third-act thing, but she supposes she’s been in the wrong genre this whole time.

 

So she says the only thing possible, given the breadth of the situation. “Well, _shit_.”

 

Peggy presses her lips together. “In a word.”

 

A car screeches down the block, and Peggy tenses, looking back over her shoulder, even though they’re in the building, outside of view of any windows. Then it’s followed by another car, just as quickly as the first, and it’s hard to feel like that’s a coincidence, at this hour.

 

So Angie’s got a decision, here.

 

The truth is, Peggy could be lying. Or working for any numbers of the wrong sides. Or Peggy could be on the right side, but making the wrong move could still wind up with Angie hurt or dead, just for helping. She saw Peggy’s gunshot wounds. She ain’t stupid here, she can measure up knows the stakes.

 

But if there’s one other thing Angie knows, it's triage. Weighing options. One guy bleeding out, and a woman turning cyanotic, and how to get to them both fast enough to save two lives. At least three people are screaming or crying at any given time. Which one to risk.

 

_Priorities._

 

Compared to all that, weighed for a split second, in the quiet that only comes at 4 am, and during the biggest decisions of a person’s life?

 

It takes just her half a second more, before she’s opening the door the rest of the way, and pulling Peggy inside.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi it's late again
> 
> my anxiety had a cage-match with my muse, and it took a fugue-state of running on about four hours sleep to jumpstart things properly again
> 
> it's here though enjoy

 

 

Getting her inside the door, if anything, felt like the easy part.

 

What wasn’t so easy, was figuring out exactly to handle whatever was next. When she had a wanted fugitive standing in her living room, taking in the slightly shabby surroundings. When Angie was in her pyjamas, the flannel of them making her feel twice as insignificant as usual in the face of someone like _her_.

 

They stare at each other.

 

“I need to make a phone call.” Peggy says, breaking the silence.

 

“Sure, uh… I only got a cell, if that’s okay?”

 

“It’s risky, given that…” Peggy shakes her head, once

 

“You wanna use my bedroom, or?”

 

Her phone is by her bedside table, so she lets Peggy follow her into her bedroom in the middle of the night, and Angie doesn’t think about that even a little bit, much as she’d like to.

 

She fumbles for it, and the charging cable comes loose from the wall, but she leaves it dangling, shoving the phone into Peggy’s hand and turning to flee.

 

Peggy’s hands were cold, when they touched in the exchange. They’re soft, though, so as she lets the door of the bedroom close, Angie makes for the cupboard, pulling down a bottle, just to give her hands something else to think about.

 

Which is good, honestly, because Angie has been trying really hard not to overthink things, and there’s only so long any girl can hold onto that, situation like this. Are there any situations like this?

 

What _even_ is this situation? She can feel her bare feet on the scratchy carpet, feel herself aiming _this close_ to letting herself panic, letting herself run, or argue, or snap and get angry all over again, or… Something.

 

Except Peggy is letting herself out of her bedroom, and it’s one goddamn looks that is all it takes to remind her what’s at stake, here.

 

“You want any schnapps?” Angie asks, barring anything at all better to say. “Cause honestly, I could use some.”

 

“I suppose, had things gone a more conventional way, getting a drink together would have the logical next step, anyway, so…” Peggy tries, before trailing off.

 

 _Damn_ , if that doesn’t sound dangerously close to confirmation of something. Something she’d been all set on convincing herself wasn’t there. Except maybe it’s not the time or place or opportunity, so Angie tries to change tack, no matter how much she’d like different.

 

“Honestly, I held your guts together with my own hands, I think we’re a little past ‘steps’. But sure, sit down, I’ll break it out. Ain’t got any of the fancy glasses, but with the night I expect you’ve had, I think you can probably handle it in a mug, anyway. Hell, I don’t even know why I have this stuff, it’s an old lady drink or for dumbass teenagers who wanna get shitfaced, but I think it’s apricot or something?”

 

She’s chattering, she knows she is, knows it’s both her first line of defense, and her best way to calm someone else down. Or maybe herself.

 

She ain’t half sure which one she’s going for this time, whether it’s her or Peggy that needs the reassurance.

 

Except maybe she does know, because as she busies herself pulling down two cups out of her kitchen, and sloshing some frankly questionable booze into a couple of mugs, chattering the whole way…

 

Peggy is utterly quiet.

 

When she comes back, Peggy is sitting at her dinky little living room, on the couch, the one with the ugly crocheted monstrosity that her grandma knitted for her, draped all over the back of it. It’s a weird sight, one that catches a little in the back of her throat, because Peggy looks lost and at home there, all at once.

 

So Angie sits beside her. Shoves one mug into Peggy’s hands, and takes an unhealthy swig out of the other one.

 

“Speaking of holding your guts in, how are those stitches holding up? Cause I got a pretty good first aid kit here.” She offers, and waits for the response, taking a break from trying to fill up the silence.

 

Instead, Peggy stares at her, as flummoxed as she’s ever seen the woman. “They’re fine, I… _You_ … Angie. I know I came here, hoping, but… _Angie,_ you didn’t even ask me what side I was on.”

 

Huh.

 

“Don’t reckon I need to.” Angie shrugs.

 

“No?”

 

“No.” Angie says, and in the moment of space between one breath and another, she knows she’s sure about that answer, as she’s ever been about pretty much anything.

 

“For… Plausible deniability?” Peggy asks, and there’s something hard in that. Not disappointed. Not sharp, not judging. Just… there. The reality of life, measured out.

 

It’s a notion of reality that Angie is entirely too willing to disabuse her of, so she mentally picks out how to do it, carefully, in the best way she can figure how. Because maybe it’s the right time, and maybe it isn’t. But they might not have the time later.

 

“I didn’t ask, cause I don’t have to ask.” She eventually decides upon.

 

“Why not?” Peggy presses, leaning towards her on the cheap little couch, their legs bumping against each other. “I lied to you, led you on, ignored you, and now I turn up at your door…”

 

Angie puts her mug on the coffee table, and puts her free hand up, to shut Peggy up. It works, too, is the damnedest thing.

 

“Okay. So. Thing is, you’re right. _Technically_. You’ve yanked my chain all over the place, you’re dangerous, you’re walking wounded… And I don’t know a damn thing about you. I don’t even know if I know your real name, I don’t know nothing about your family, or what your favourite flower is, or all the crap you’re supposed to know about a person that you’re in this deep with.”

 

Peggy nods, then opens her mouth, like she’s going to say something. But Angie isn’t done, not by half.

 

She just keeps looking at this woman, this impossible, beautiful, frustrating woman, that she was so ready to walk out on, because it scared her too damn much, how fast she was already gone. Maybe this is terrible timing, maybe this is the dumbest thing Angie’s ever done in her life, but there isn’t a power out there that would be enough for her to change her mind.

 

“But I know you like pie, and you take your coffee black because you reckon you don’t need the sugar, even if you could probably use it. I know you look dying in the face like it’s nothing, but you can’t look a girl in the eye when she gives you her number. I’m pretty sure I know a lot more about you, than most people I’ve been in anything with.”

 

“Cause the thing is… I’m a practical kind of person. This really isn’t my usual style. And hell, maybe there’s a time and place somewhere out there, in the collection of universes, where I use up all my impracticality in other ways, and don’t fall for you half as quick.”

 

Except Angie still isn’t done, so she just barrels right on through, because in for a penny, in for a fucking tonne. She figured her voice would be a little short of hysterical by this point in the speech. It’s not. It’s flat and level and sure, no twist except the one that her half-smile provides.

 

“Or maybe I fall for you just as fast, because you’re just the kind of person who inspires that, no matter how goddamn stupid or frustrating you can be. The kind who, correct me if I’m wrong, out of everybody she could think of, in the whole damn world, picked my door to knock on. Cause even when I said different, she already knew, just by coming here at all, that she didn’t need to really ask, why _I_ wouldn’t need to.”

 

And hell, maybe she just said enough words. Woman of action, that’s her.

 

“So. If you still want me to show you why I don’t gotta ask, I can do that,” She says, letting her voice turn up the heat a little, and reaching forward to take the mug of schnapps out of Peggy’s hand, and place it on the coffee table beside her own. “It’s just gonna more of a cooperative thing, is all.”

 

“Angie…” Peggy says, her eyes wide and full of about eight different kinds of emotion, all the hard flatness replaced by something else.

 

So Angie leans in, perfectly telegraphing the movement. Peggy kisses back, with every ounce of grace and warmth, that Angie had always thought the woman had in her. It’s a damn good kiss, if Angie isn’t gonna be too modest.

 

“That a good enough answer” She asks, when she’s let go of Peggy’s collar.

 

“I… I believe so.” Peggy laughs, soft and gently, and nearly leans forward again.

 

Nearly, because their luck has apparently run right the way out, driven out by the godawful pounding at her door.

 

_“Ms Cartinelli! Federal agents!”_

 

Shit. Fuck. Of all the goddamn, shitastic, unfortunate fucking times, they just had to…

 

“Rain check on the schnapps, I’m afraid.” Peggy says, eyes darting to the door, and then further into the apartment. She's afraid, actually letting that show a little bit, just for the briefest of moments.

 

It’s all the time Angie needs, though, cause she’s been planning Peg’s escape route since she pulled her into the apartment. She’s forward-thinking like that. So rather than swoon, or panic, she grabs Peggy’s hand, and holds tight. “Alright, listen quick. In my bedroom, there’s a window that leads out onto the fire escape. The neighbours below me are outta town, and leave their window unlocked, the dumbasses. Climb down, then use the service elevator to go down to the garage, which connects to the neighbouring building, that’s got an entrance on another street. Got it?”

 

Peggy blinks back, surprised. And _good_. Only fair that Angie gets to surprise her back, sometimes. “When this is all over, I owe you…”

 

Angie gives her a gentle shove, pushing the both of them off the couch and into action. “Shut up, and get going, English. I ain’t got all day to come up with a cover story, so you better be moving by the time I open that door.”

 

So, Peggy does.


End file.
